


Human Qualities

by TheLiminality



Series: Explosions [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, description of violence, platonic friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLiminality/pseuds/TheLiminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some are loud about emotions, interactions, relationships. Shouting to anyone who will listen. Using their hands to flail before the eyes of others to emphasize a useless, empty point. </p><p>Sherlock, for the first time, is quiet about these reactions. He is careful. He is gentle to the world around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Qualities

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to start another series. Since I have been struggling with my High Violet Series, I decided to carry on the theme, but go another musical route if you will. I found writing to instrumental music gives my mind more room to create rather than getting hung up on lyrics.
> 
> This series is called Explosions (the band Explosions In The Sky). I carry out writing these fics by listening to the song blindly, and I have until the song finishes to complete a fic. The song this fic was inspired by is called Human Qualities, it's length; eight minutes, nine seconds. And that is how long it took me to create this fic.
> 
> Listen as you read
> 
> Human Qualities - Explosions In The Sky; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqChTn4PNuA
> 
> I do not own these characters or this music.

John knew Sherlock is very much human. Obviously so. He is alive. He breathes (deep, slow rhythm. Awake and asleep). He bleeds (stab wound from a suspect that got too close. Exploding lab equipment when Sherlock’s mind wandered too far away. Chemicals mingled and danced over broken glass). He feels (unsure. Unworthy. Timid in odd situations). John is no longer alarmed when he sees the humanity within Sherlock. His humanity has always been there. It has just been dulled over time, as ones humanity would be if one were in a constant state of outside and self abuse. It is easy to numb yourself from your internal reality when not much else is at stake. When your self worth is a solid zero, what is there to save? What is there to be had? For Sherlock, it was nothing. Which resulted into throwing himself in front of bullets, knives, hypodermic needles stolen from a hospitals supply. 

And to most, these qualities make Sherlock quite un-human.  
They see him as mad. Ready to die at the tip of a hat.  
Ready to kill when need be.  
Ready to cause everyone pain in order to solve a puzzle.

But these people simply aren't looking close enough. John See’s Sherlock’s humanity in many ways. The girl, kidnapped, beaten (she was fifteen. She was scared). Sherlock ran to her at the first sight of her bruised and bloodied body. How he soothed her wrist back into normal circulation the moment he cut the wires tying her down. The man, lost for days due to a brain tumor (He was seventy-two. Long life. Terminal illness. He was scared). Sherlock walked over, calmly introducing himself. And while viewing it all, John could swear he was dreaming. This man was lost in his own mind. The lanky, downright intimidating figure, brought him back to reality. His thin arm stretching out, fingers splayed, reaching for the Detectives hand with trust and stability. And Sherlock reached forward in return.

The day that sticks out to John though is not one involving a case. Rather a day that involved none. Usually, Sherlock would let everyone know that his brain was trying to escape from it’s skull. That he was finally going mad, and it was everyone's fault for not making it better. John decided that a walk would help, and his friend actually joined him. He expected him to be stroppy. To mock everything around him. Instead, John witnessed parts of his friend that were usually kept very well hidden. 

Every building they passed, Sherlock’s fingers danced along the bricks, tile, cement. He wasn't cataloging. He wasn't deleting and replacing. He was feeling. If he could not verbally speak to the world, he was sure to leave his mark where he could. He listened to the stories those buildings had to tell, and he made sure to touch each one for as long as possible. 

Sherlock stopped suddenly simply to enjoy the faint mist of a promised rain storm later. He wasn't thinking. There was no need to, his face relaxed as did his stance. He’d be happy to drown there, John thought, he was just pleased to feel the cold mist against his exposed skin. And John did not interrupt. He let his friend carry on. 

When they reached the park, John took a seat. Sherlock did not. He walked around the bench, looking over and under. The carvings of names from teenagers with the promise of love for life that ended in a blink of an eye. Sherlock traced his fingers over those names. The ridiculous hearts. He walked to the trees, looking up at the extensive, aging branches. Fingers brushing the bark with care. It almost looked as though he was whispering to it. Telling it that it is doing a magnificent job. Science appreciates it. Some rubbish like that. 

And then, John’s Detective stood in front of the bench. Simply watching the world. His whole body still. Besides his fingers. They danced along open air, tapping out a symphony into the wind with ease. It took John a moment to realize Sherlock was just playing a song from the violin. But for who? No one was watching, besides him of course. 

And that’s when the Doctor finally understood. 

Sherlock wasn’t mad. He wasn’t lonely. He was communicating with the world around him. Through touch, through feeling. And now, through song. He was never a robot. He feels just as others do. The only difference is the feeling itself. Some are loud about emotions, interactions, relationships.Shouting to anyone who will listen. Using their hands to flail before the eyes of others to emphasize a useless, empty point. 

Sherlock, for the first time, is quiet about these reactions. He is careful. He is gentle to the world around him. He need not shout and scream at the air. No. He’d much rather be playing his music to it. He need not cry over relationships, for he has thousands of their stories in his head simply by dragging fingers across carved names created on a drunk night when life seemed safe and infinite. He thanks the trees because breathing isn’t boring. He plays music for the atmosphere, silent, just in a form of appreciation. 

This man is not cold. This man, this lanky, introverted, detached being  
Is warm.

The most frightening thing can contain human qualities.  
The most frightening being bleeds the fear out of others only to remind them  
That they need not be afraid.  
There’s human qualities beyond a thick mask.  
And some humans, they are quiet in their feeling.  
So quiet that if you didn't look closely  
Long enough  
You wouldn't even know they existed at all.

It’s all just music in air.


End file.
